No. 11—"911, What's Your Emergency?"
Sloppy Bandages | Self-Done First Aid | Makeshift Splint
Arthur awoke in the middle of a battlefield.
Pain throbbed through his right leg, crushed his chest and side, and numbed his left hand. He lay flat on the dirt road for a minute, gasping for breath.
What was he doing lying in a battlefield? Whenever he was injured in battle, he woke up next to a fire with Merlin insulting him or in his bed with Gwen tending him or, rarely, in Gaius's chambers with the elderly physician anxiously hovering over him.
What had even happened? He slogged through his memory. There had been villagers complaining of a magical beast killing their children and rumors of Morgana in the vicinity. Arthur had led a contingent of knights to go check out the rumors and deal with the beast. They had been on the road when…
Pain. That's all Arthur could remember. Being on the road, then pain.
"Merlin?" His voice was ragged, but hopefully loud enough to call the numbskull from where he was huddled behind a tree or gathering firewood or water. The addled idiot was always by his side, whether Arthur wanted him to be or not.
Nothing.
Arthur forced himself to sit up, pushing himself up with his good arm. He almost blacked out, but managed to keep himself upright.
He wasn't wearing his armor.
He had definitely been wearing his armor while riding down the road. The dead knights surrounding him were wearing armor. So where was his? All he had was his white shirt and brown pants. Blood soaked his right side and his left sleeve. He was weaponless. His right leg was crooked and bloody. Broken. Every breath pained him all over his chest.
Arthur pressed a hand to his temple. "What's going on?" he whispered.
He had to get off the road. Whoever had attacked might come back and notice he wasn't dead. Without his weapons, his armor, or his ability to stand, he would not be able to fight anyone off for long.
He laid back down and just breathed for a second, gathering his strength. He rolled over onto his stomach. The throbbing pain in his leg turned to stabbing. He gritted his teeth against a cry.
Now, to get off the road. He tucked his numb left hand into his shirt collar and pulled himself along with his right arm. He could only move a few inches at a time, and the pressure on his chest made his breaths a struggle. He had to crawl over some of his dead knights, men he'd trained and knighted and shaken hands with and competed against in tournaments. But he couldn't think about it because he had to survive. So he just kept crawling until he finally made it into the bushes on the side of the road.
Another knight was dead in the bushes. So far, no one on the Round Table had appeared, but that was hardly a comfort when his friends were nowhere to be found. They never would have willingly left him, even if they had believed him dead.
This knight, however, had a satchel. Arthur dug into it. A wrapped handful of jerky, a locket, and rolls of bandages. The knight also had a knife on his belt.
Arthur had no need for the locket, but he could return it to the knight's family. He pulled the satchel off the knight and slung it over his own shoulder, then attached the knife to his belt.
Turning over and sitting up was an ordeal, but he managed it. Leaning against a tree and panting hard, he pulled out the bandages. This would be difficult, considering he only had the use of one arm. He pried open the flaps of his left sleeve and examined the wound.
He had thought it was a sword, or a spear, but the edges of the long, deep slash almost looked torn rather than cut. The tear spread almost all the way down his arm and in some parts went almost all the way to the bone. But the numbness didn't quite make sense.
He shook his head. The method of injury didn't really matter anymore, just tending it. He cut off his sleeve with the knife and wrapped the deepest parts of the tear with the bandage. Tying it off was difficult, so he just tucked the end under the rest of the bandage and hoped for the best.
Next, he checked his side wound. This one looked more normal. It was a shallow spear wound. Still dangerous, but at least he could tell where it came from. The more worrying was the spread of broken ribs—at least he was pretty sure they were broken. Either that or he had some other sort of internal injuries. He bandaged his spear wound clumsily. He found himself forced to use his numb hand to pin the bandage down to keep the bandage from slipping as he wrapped it.
Then, his leg. The same sort of tearing, ripping gash streaked down his leg, almost as if an animal had bitten him. The blood coated both his upper and lower leg, but only his lower leg appeared to be broken. That was something, at least. After bandaging the cuts, he grabbed two sticks—they were crooked, but they were within his reach, and that was all that really mattered—and tied them to his lower leg. Well, he tried to tie them. He had no guarantee the loose knots would hold. But there wasn't much he could do with only one useful hand.
He sighed. What he really needed was to scout around and see if he could find some tracks of survivors to follow. Someone who could help him. But he couldn't track if he couldn't walk.
He sheathed the knife and inched himself forward. A few long branches lay nearby. He pulled himself towards them and riffled through them. Most were too short or too thin, but one was thick enough and tall enough to work as a cane. He would have to lean on the trees as well.
With that, he dragged himself upright. Pain shot through his leg and his chest. He cried out. Dizzied, he leaned against the nearest tree and caught his breath.
He closed his eyes. I just want to go home.
But if he wanted to be home, he had to drag himself there. He limped and weaved around the battle site. He couldn't kneel down and examine the ground better, but eventually he found something that looked like it could be Arthur's closest knights and Merlin. In all likelihood, it was really the people that had attacked Arthur, but at least it was people.
So he followed the tracks.
Somehow, he managed to limp along for a few hours before collapsing on the ground. By then, the tracks were plain enough that he could inch himself along with his good arm and still follow them.
If they weren't his knights, he was probably in trouble. But if they were, he wanted to know why he had been left behind.
Darkness began to fall. Spots floated in his vision. His side cramped badly. His right arm screamed at him. Too much exertion.
He dropped his head down on the leaves littering the forest floor. All he wanted to do was stop moving right here and rest. But if he did, he may not be able to start moving again. Ever.
Hand shaking, he reached down to his stabbing side. His bandages were wet.
Of course they were.
Faint voices drifted to him. A breeze blew gently against his face. A tiny glow flickered far in the distance.
People. He was almost there.
"Just…a little…farther," Arthur choked out. He raised his agonizingly sore arm and dragged himself a little further. Just a little further.
The glow stayed steady. The voices grew louder until one stood out above the rest.
"What is wrong with you?" Gwaine demanded.
Gwaine.
Tears sprung into Arthur's eyes. He never thought he'd actually be happy to hear Gwaine's voice. But Gwaine would be able to take care of Arthur, maybe even explain what was going on. He opened his mouth and tried to call out, "Help!" but his voice only croaked. He coughed harshly. The coughs turned into desperate gasps for air. He leaned his forehead against the cool soil, struggling to bring in breaths. Gwaine's voice blended with indistinct angry voices as Arthur finally got his breathing under control.
Yelling for help was out. He would have to drag himself the final yards towards safety and then get noticed.
He grimaced, but kept inching himself along, too focused on his travel to pay attention to the words being said ahead of him. He simply drank in the familiar voices. His arm trembled. Sweat or blood trailed down his side, dampened the bandages on his arm. Pain stabbed through his leg with every bump and snag it traveled over. He pulled himself up a hill and found himself gazing down into a small hollow.
A fire was built in the middle of the hollow, the source of the flickering light. Arthur's knights sat or stood around the fire, Leon, Elyan, Percival, and Gwaine. Gwaine stood chest to chest with another knight, and this knight stood over Merlin, who was sprawled on the ground, one hand on his cheek and his mouth gaping open.
Arthur squinted at the other knight. Something wasn't right. Blond hair, gleaming chainmail, strong jaw… A face he saw in the mirror every night.
He was staring at himself.
Or, rather, someone who was masquerading as Arthur.
Well, this explained why Merlin and his knights had left him behind. They hadn't even realized they'd got the wrong Arthur.
Arthur set his jaw. He dragged himself a few more inches and purposefully toppled down the small hill into the clearing. He gritted his teeth against the horrible pain pushed into him with every jolt and bump. He couldn't quite roll to his feet, so he rolled to his knees and cleared his throat.
"You're an imposter." Arthur glared at not-Arthur, laying his good hand on the knife in his belt. Given the imposter had Arthur's sword, Arthur's armor, and two functioning arms and two functioning legs, this fight would be terribly one-sided, but ninety percent of a battle was won with confidence—or so Arthur had been told.
The knights and Merlin spun around to stare at Arthur.
"I knew it," Gwaine said. "I knew you were acting strange."
"Arthur!" Merlin scrambled up, a wide smile carving across his face, then immediately dropping. "You look half-dead."
"More than half, I should think," Arthur quipped, or at least tried to. He wasn't exactly sure how impressive it was when he was covered in dirt, leaves, and blood and his vision was wavering like water in a pond full of splashing children.
Gwaine drew his sword and laid it at the imposter's throat. "Don't think I won't just run you through."
Not-Arthur placed his hands on his head. "I suppose this means I'll have to go to Plan B."
"Don't you dare," Gwaine growled. "No one dares to attack and impersonate my king."
"That's all…very nice, but I…think I'm going to pass out now," Arthur said, tipping towards the ground.
Someone, Percival, Arthur thought, caught him. Merlin leaned over him and pressed his hands to his side.
"Oh, Arthur, I'm so sorry. I should have been paying more attention. I should have known. I shouldn't have left you behind." For some reason, Merlin looked distressed.
"Not your fault," Arthur whispered. "Tell Gaius…" He blinked hard to keep himself aware just a bit longer. "Tell Gaius I'm sorry I splinted my leg wrong." And with that, he dropped off into oblivion.